I lower my phone and step closer to the window as the bald man shifts his jacket. Sunlight glints off the gold shield clipped to his belt. The uniformed officer says something, and the bald guy points back at whoever else is sitting in the car.

The officer nods and heads back to his own vehicle.

“Merriel? . . . Are you there? . . . Merriel.”

I blink at the sound of my name, then look at the phone in my hand. Mr. Webster!

“Sorry.” My hand holding the phone shakes. The man watching my house knows the police. It seems like he might even be one of them—perhaps some kind of detective. And he’s tailing me—just like the woman said. “I was looking out the window while I was on hold and got distracted.”

“When my assistant told me you were on the phone, I was worried something else might have happened.”

“Nothing happened.” My mind races. Why would detectives be watching my house? The only answer I can come up with is because Mr. Webster told them to come here. “I just wanted to thank you again for helping me today and to ask . . .”

“Yes?”

“Just . . .” Thoughts trip over each other. “I know you told me not to worry, but is there any chance that the gang you told me about could figure out who I am? Is there any reason the police or someone should be watching my house in case they try to contact me?”

I wait for him to tell me about the guys in the car out front, but instead he says, “The gang is looking for people who want to become members. They aren’t going to come looking for you at your home. Trust me. No police protection is necessary, but if you feel uneasy or remember anything more that could help us find whoever the code word came from, I want you to contact me immediately. My assistant has been instructed to put you right through.”

I picture the gray-haired woman who’d waited for me near the school. She said a guy named Atlas was certain I’d come back to find her. That’s exactly the kind of thing Mr. Webster wants me to tell him about. But the words stick in my throat when I look at the car sitting on the opposite curb with the driver’s-side window cracked open.

Mr. Webster has to know the detectives are sitting outside my house, but he isn’t telling me about them. Maybe he’s doing what he has to in order to keep me safe. Maybe he doesn’t trust me not to flip out if I learn there is a chance I’m in danger. Maybe . . .

“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” Mr. Webster asks. “I have a number of important matters that require my attention before I leave the office today.”

My eyes stay glued on the car sitting outside. “I guess I just need to hear you say that you’ll tell me if you think the gang might come looking for me.”